


Crawl

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Also they're just Gross, Excessive Drinking, M/M, Maroon Island Honeymoon, This is rated M for, and consequences thereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 05:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14394945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: Silver goes on a bender to avoid thinking about Flint's questions, but he always comes back.





	Crawl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FirenzeSun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FirenzeSun/gifts).



> Flor thank you for this totally gross fic prompt and I'm sorry I made it even more gross ❤️
> 
> Prompt kiss: Silverflint - a gentle “i love you” whispered after a soft kiss, followed immediately by a stronger kiss

Silver’s shivering even though the temperature outside can be generously described as hot as Hades. His body, for so long now accustomed to the abuses of pain, discomfort, and not enough quality food, has apparently decided that this latest abuse of too much rum has gone a step too far. He’s not even sure how he managed to make his way to Flint’s tent in the darkness that is at least as much caused by his inebriation as the lack of the sun in the starlit skies. But he needs help, and there is no one else in the world he would allow to see him this way.

He doesn’t want to allow Flint to see him this way either. But Flint will understand. He’ll have to understand. Silver will make him understand.

One hand on the flap of the tent, he slides to his knees and retches into the grass. “Oh no,” he groans. It won’t stop now until the entire contents of his bowels have been emptied, one way or another, he knows how nights like these go. It’s been a while, he has to admit, since he’s had a “night like this,” but, well, here we are.

And then, Lord help him, Flint’s arms are around him, dragging him inside the tent, out of the humid night air and away from the prying eyes of the cosmos.

“Jesus,” Flint’s voice caresses his ear as a wet cloth is pressed to his clammy forehead, as Flint runs it down his neck and his exposed chest. Did he throw up all over himself? Can this night bring on any further indignities?

“I’m sorry,” he says, vaguely aware that his hand is digging into the meat of Flint’s thigh. This isn’t the fashion in which he’d hoped to get his hands upon those thighs.

“What have you done to yourself?” Flint’s voice is devoid of judgment, at least for the time being. “Silver?” The hand on the back of his head is hot and heavy and were it not for that hand, he would tumble down into the ninth circle of hell. At least the seventh. “Silver?” Softer now. Silver still cannot see Flint, but the heat of his body is unmistakable against his perspiration-soaked back. He’s no longer shivering.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you,” Silver whispers, his fingers winding through Flint’s, where his captain’s hand rests against his abdomen as if trying to contain what’s left of Silver from escaping in one violent stream of vomit. “And now I’m scared,” he confesses, forehead pressed against Flint’s jaw. How much did he drink and is any of it real? Flint’s arms around him, Flint’s face so close to his own, Flint brushing hair out of his face, whispering platitudes into his ear.

“You’re safe,” Flint whispers. “We need to get some water into you. Come on, Silver, help me lift your head. Silver… _John_.”

“It wasn’t enough for you,” Silver exhales, looking into those eyes that are suddenly too close and much kinder than he deserves. “And now you won’t want me.”

Flint is quiet for too long and Silver fears he’s about to lose whatever is left of the contents of his stomach, right here in the middle of Flint’s tent. Then something cool is pressed to his lips, and Flint’s fingers are a gentle press against his chin. “Drink. You need to drink this water.”

He can’t. He knows he can’t hold it down. It will come out of him again, it’s coming out of him already, out of his eyes. “I wasn’t enough for you,” he repeats and is on all fours, his body spasming in rebellion against the attempts at hydration. And Flint, god damn him, he’s actually holding his hair back, and Silver wishes the earth would swallow him whole. He doesn’t want to think about it too much, but he’s pretty sure he just vomited into one of Flint’s newer, cleaner shirts. The bundle is unceremoniously tossed outside the tent.

“It’s all right,” Flint whispers, his hands heavy and comforting against Silver’s back, “you’ll be all right. Just try to keep the water down, and get some rest.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Silver repeats, because when you’re three sheets to the wind, your mind will do that, play the same phrase over and over again in your head, like some terrible yet catchy tune you wish you could forget. “And now I’ve made a spectacle of myself.”

“You’ve always been a spectacle,” a gentle whisper into his ear and – god damn it – Silver is actually laughing now, and Flint is laughing with him, both their bodies shaking with weak, utterly inappropriate laughter.

At least Flint is the same single-minded creature he’s always been, because he’s trying to force water down Silver’s throat again. Silver takes two pathetic sips because the last thing he wants is to disappoint Flint again, after their conversation earlier in the day, and now – well – his entire _state_.

“Don’t tell me you did this to yourself on my account,” Flint says and his hand clutches against the nape of Silver’s neck.

“I wanted to be…” Silver begins to say but the right words are for once just out of the reach of his mercurial tongue. “Worthy of you,” he says.

“Silver…” The way Flint says his name threatens to rend Silver apart. Who is he that his name should make this man sound so broken? Could it be that his involuntary reticence broke the fragile trust between them? Will Flint now withdraw from him in the mist, like a rum-induced dream? And then Flint’s lips are pressed against his, soft and tentative, and clearly uncaring of how rancid he must surely taste. “I love you,” Flint whispers and, all saints assist him, he sounds terrified and Silver is expiring in his arms. And before Flint begins to apologize because, even inebriated, Silver can still read him as clear as crystal, he pulls himself up, grabs a hold of that neck that he’d spent more than one afternoon up on those cliffs somehow _not_ kissing, and presses his own lips against Flint’s.

There’s nothing soft or tentative about the way Silver licks into the cavernous heat of Flint’s mouth, the way he greedily drinks his moans instead of water. His fingers clutch at the back of Flint’s shaved head, cursing him mentally for having rid himself of hair for him to grasp. Flint’s own fist is wrapped in his curls in a possessive tug and his eyes are closed in such ecstasy that Silver can almost forget the anguish he’d put himself through that night. Because Flint is kissing him like a man who _wants_ him, like a man who might even think Silver is enough, maybe… just maybe enough. Perhaps this can be enough for both of them, these drunken, ravenous kisses that Silver hopes are a much more satisfying confession than anything else he may have told Flint up on that cliff.

At last, Silver’s on his back and Flint is panting into his open mouth, looking down at him with dark, unfocused eyes. Silver’s thirst will not be slaked by the water that Flint insists on pressing to his parched lips.

“You need to drink this. _Please_. We can’t do this when you aren’t clear-headed.”

Silver reaches up to brush his thumb against the crease that furrows between Flint’s overly-expressive eyebrows. “Captain,” Silver smiles up at him. “I’m clear-headed. I’m always clear-headed about you.”

Flint’s kissing his forehead, his temples, raking his fingers through Silver’s tangled curls. Silver wonders whether there is a better place in the world to finally get some rest than with his nose pressed into the coarse hair that peppers the valley of Flint’s powerful chest. He smells of leather and gunpowder and the sea, always of the sea. He smells like a faraway promise of home that was snatched up from Silver never to return again. He smells of Silver’s fear, which clings to them both with drops of vomit. And of love, of a love so powerful, so endless that not even the grave will extinguish its flame.


End file.
